Deadline (Sandra Brown)

take you to Ohio to tour his hometown, show you the site of the home that burned, visit the cemetery where his parents were buried?”
    “They were cremated. He didn’t keep their remains. He wasn’t sentimental or nostalgic. He told me that, when he left Ohio, he left for good and never had a desire to return, not even to high-school class reunions.”
    “Did he say why?”
    “The memories were too sad. He dealt with them by severing any and all ties.”
    “He didn’t have one single shred of something that linked him to his parents? Nothing to indicate what they and his childhood had been like?”
    “Why are you fixated on this?”
    “I’m interested.”
    “But why? It’s ancient history. And what does his childhood have to do with anything else?”
    “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. His parents could have impacted him in ways that even you’re unaware of.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Of course they did.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because parents do.”
    “Did yours?”
    “Yes.” He shot the rest of his whiskey and set the tumbler on the table. “Just like you’ll influence Hunter and Grant, like your dad influenced you. From something as simple as what goes into a good meat loaf to the not-so-simple. Religion. Culture. How you should vote. Every damn thing you think or believe, your reactions, your behavior, were partially shaped by who and what your parents were.”
    “Genetics versus environment isn’t a new controversy.”
    “I don’t think it’s one versus the other. I think it’s a blend.”
    “Why are you so hung up on Jeremy’s blend ?”
    “Because when I write about somebody, I want to know these things.”
    He had admitted to carefully observing individuals in an effort to learn what made them tick. Gauging by the stories she’d read online, he did more than that when he wrote about a person. He provided his readers a cross-section of their mind and soul. Which was disconcerting.
    “Are you going to write about me?”
    “I don’t know yet.”
    “If you do, will you dissect me and hang me out there for all to see?”
    “In order to do that, I would need to know things about you.”
    “You already do.”
    “Not enough. Not nearly.”
    “What else could you possibly wish to know?”
    He stared into her eyes for a ponderous moment, and that should have warned her of what was coming. It didn’t. She was totally unprepared.
    “I want to know about your father’s suicide.”

Chapter 11
    F or several seconds she was too stunned to move, then she bolted from her chair and marched across the room. He caught her just as she stepped onto the bottom stair. Hooking her upper arm with his hand, he brought her around to face him.
    “Let go of me!”
    “Calm down.”
    “Go to hell!”
    “Keep your voice down. You’ll wake up the boys.”
    “You bet I’ll wake up the boys.” She jerked her arm free. “I’m taking my sons and getting far away from you, and I don’t care if we have to wade to Savannah tonight!”
    She shoved his chest and pushed herself out of his grip, then turned and started up the stairs. But on the third one, her socks caused her to slip. She fell forward, catching herself on the step above her, but knocking one knee hard against the edge of the tread. She clasped her knee and sat down on the step, rocking in pain.
    “Dammit! Are you okay?”
    He sat down on the step beneath her, bringing his face level with hers. His concern looked genuine, which only made her more furious. She placed her elbows on her knees and lowered her face to her hands. “Get away from me.”
    He didn’t, of course. He just sat there, silent and unmoving, for as long as she did. Finally, when she had composed herself, she lowered her hands and wiped her tear-dampened palms on the legs of her pajamas. Looking anywhere except at him, she noticed the overturned tumbler in front of the chair where she’d been sitting.
    “I dropped my glass. The bourbon spilled.”
    “Who gives a fuck?”
    The vulgarity was unexpected, and she realized immediately that he’d used it intentionally to shock her out of her anger. It worked. She laughed, or choked out a laugh.
    He motioned toward her knee. “I’ll be happy to kiss it and make it well.”
    His genial smile completely defused her anger. She gave another involuntary laugh, then shook her head with chagrin. “Ah, Dawson.”
    “What?”
    “I didn’t want to like you.”
    “Then we’re even. I didn’t want to like